


The Stranger Cafe

by louvely



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: (i guess), Angst, Fluff, M/M, Runaway!Harry, Smut, Step-siblings, Teenage Rebellion, Underage - Freeform, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-25
Updated: 2013-10-06
Packaged: 2017-12-27 13:46:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/979645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/louvely/pseuds/louvely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis thinks that he could never love anyone as much as he loves his cafe, and then the bell chimes and Dimples says, “I’m your step-brother.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hi. so, i decided to post another work (oh no). this is completely un-edited and posted on a whim. be gracious. humor me.

            On an airy Sunday in June, Louis’ mum takes him to meet her long-term boyfriend. Des lives in a house on a hill about thirty minutes away from them, and Louis and his sisters have to skip up a long walkway to get to his door. Inside, his house is too spacious, with too many objects made of glass. Louis keeps his eyes on his sisters the entire night, making sure that they don’t touch a thing, because he is always the responsible one when he’s with them. He stares pointedly at the paintings on the walls and doesn’t answer any of Des’ questions with anything more than a “no”.

            At some point in the night, Jay and Des decide to watch a film, and the girls want to watch it as well. Louis, being a temperamental sixteen-year-old, wanders the house while they are occupied. He thinks about how lovely it would be to drag a hammer around the house and smash everything, because almost all of the things that Des owns are frail and expensive and because Louis hates the fact that his mother stopped loving his father.

            He becomes distracted by the things, though; the vases filled with marbles and the stone fireplace and the figurines on the mantle. The ceilings are high and the marble floors feel like toffee and he wonders how any child could ever call this palace their home.

            The pictures are on the wall leading up the stairs. The frames hold photographs of a boy, barely younger than Louis, with dark hair and chubby cheeks. In the first one, he is holding a water balloon, standing in the grass. His brow is quirked, mouth open, as if saying, “I’m not afraid to throw this.” Louis peers into every photo with a new question each time: who are you? Where was this photo taken? Where are you now? The boy doesn’t give any answers and eventually, Louis is at the top of the stairs.

            Louis has always been a snoop. He pads down the long hall and opens doors and looks into closets and bathrooms and bedrooms. He doesn’t understand why one person needs so much space in their house, while he is still crammed in a tiny bedroom with two of his sisters.

            The only room that isn’t like all of the others is at the end of the hall. It is painted blue on the inside, with a bed in the corner and shelves of books lining the walls. Louis spots a Rolling Stones poster and a map of France and three guitars hanging on the walls, all different colors and sizes. He smiles.

            When it is time to go, Louis prays that he isn’t obligated to hug Des like the girls all have. Des gives him a handshake and Louis asks, “Who is the boy in the pictures?”

            “That’s my son, Harry,” Des responds, as Jay gives Louis a withering stare.

            “Where is he?”

            “He ran away last year.”

            “Oh.”

            Louis thanks Des for the sophisticated meal that he provided them and then he slides in the car, turns away as Jay gives Des a kiss on the lips. He winces out the window.

            “Was Harry kidnapped?” Louis asks when they’re a couple of miles down the road.

            Jay looks tired, unlike a few minutes ago, when she was bubbly and grinning and in love. “No, Louis. He called Des just a few months ago. He’s fine. Just in that rebellious phase, you know?”

            Louis furrows his brows and stares blankly at the road in front of them. “Kids don’t run away just because they are in their rebellious phase. They run away because they’re unhappy with their lives.” When Jay sighs, Louis continues, “Do they know where he is?”

            “No, they don’t. He obviously doesn’t want to be found.” She pauses, checks that the girls aren’t listening. “It wasn’t anything that Des did, alright? Harry had a drunk mother and was a little bit troubled.”

            “How do you know, though? It isn’t like Des would _tell_ you that he’d done something wrong…”

            “Louis,” Jay snaps. “That’s enough. Conversation over, yeah?”

            Louis sifts back into his seat and pulls his knees to his chest. “It was a valid point,” he mumbles. He falls asleep before they get home.

 

            By the time Louis is twenty, he’s been working for six years, and he decides that he knows enough about managing a kitchen to open one of his own.

            He buys the cafe a few days after he sees it, and only after he’s lived in London for a few months. He paints the inside of it royal blue as soon as it’s his and he hires an amazing staff of four. He purchases a massive clock to hang on the wall, silver and elegant, and a few other items of decoration, and then he feels ready for it to be opened.

            When he does open it, he realizes that he could never have prepared himself enough. He is overwhelmed, in the first couple of months; one of his staff members likes to cause problems, and he has more expenses than he’d originally calculated, and his morning customers are the spawn of Satan (he’s sure of it).

            The menu is beautiful and his cook has the skills of a God, though. He fires the staff member that was talking about him behind his back and tries to keep the pace faster in the morning. After all, there is only so long that a customer can stand in line without a coffee before actually reaching behind the counter and strangling him. He decides that the morning customers are best not to speak to and instead, he needs to just give them their things quickly to send them on their way.

            Evenings are his favorites. He closes at seven, thank God, so the staff is all giddy and ready to go home by the time dinner is almost over. During dinner, he usually plugs in the fairy lights, and that’s when everyone seems to be in a better mood. The customers are more pleasant, as well, in the evening; usually, they are the friendly, sleep-deprived college students who come for a sweet and some tea before they depart into the night. Sometimes, Louis gets flirted with by the cheekier frequents.

            He loves his frequents; the ones that come by every morning or afternoon and order the same thing. He likes to see the familiar face and hear them recite their familiar order and it’s as close as he’s gotten to having friends since moving to London.

            Louis decides that after he sees the same face four times, they are a Frequent.

            Dimples is on his way to receiving Frequent status. He has been to the café three times, now. He always orders a tea and a pastry of some sort. Tonight, it is a simple raspberry scone. He has taken a seat at a table in the corner every other night and writes in a worn, brown-paper journal. He always brings a guitar, leans it against the window but never plays it.

            Dimples is Louis’ favorite soon-to-be Frequent. Dimples has a lean torso and dark green eyes and dresses like a very poor person, but a small dent appears in his cheek when he grins or when Louis takes his order, thus giving him the name “Dimples”.

            “We’re closing in ten minutes,” Louis repeats. He stands in front of Dimples’ table and stares at him, waiting for the boy to look up from his writing and respond.

            Dimples looks shocked when he meets Louis’ gaze. “Erm, okay. Yeah. Thanks.”

            Louis feels the boys’ eyes on him as he walks back to the counter. He wipes down the counter and every time he turns, Dimples is staring at him, brows pulled together. Louis isn’t sure if the boy is angry or curious about something.

            At 6:59, Dimples stands up and gathers his pens and notebook and throws away his trash. He stands at the counter, though, and opens his mouth.

            “I…”

            Louis stares expectantly. He wonders if the boy is going to tell him that he wants Louis’ phone number, or if he really enjoyed his scone. He might even be telling Louis that this is a fine little development that Louis has here.

            Instead of finishing his sentence, the boy turns around and walks out and Louis purses his lips. “Fine, then,” Louis mumbles.

            When Louis has sent all of the staff home and he’s turned off almost all of the lights, the bell chimes. “We’re closed!” he calls from the kitchen. He’s annoyed that someone could so apparently misread the sign on the door.

            He peers out of the doorway when he hears a stool being pulled out.

            Dimples sits at the counter, expectantly, and Louis makes note that the boy is now a Frequent.

            Louis, shedding his apron as he walks, makes his way back out in the café.

            “Yes?” he asks. This is odd.

            He considers for a moment that he is about to be robbed or that this boy is some sort of predator. Dimples is considerably larger than him, and although Louis has a pair of legs on him, he isn’t sure if he could take him.

            “I’m your step-brother,” Dimples says. He blinks evenly into Louis’ eyes.

            Louis gawks. “Excuse me?”

            “I’m Harry,” Harry re-affirms.

            “You’re Harry,” Louis echoes. He clears his throat like this is normal. “You’re Des’ son?”

            “Yes,” Harry says mildly.

            “What…um, what are you doing here?” Louis isn’t sure if he is relieved that he’s not about to get raped or if he’s panicking that he’s meeting the boy that’s been missing for five years.

            Harry looks like he’s struggling with his words. He bites his lip and stares up at the ceiling. “This is a nice place. You have a lovely taste in décor.”

            Louis blushes. “What are you doing here?” he repeats.

            “I’m looking for a place to stay,” Harry says. “And I knew that your mother married my father and that you were living in London, so I looked for you. And I found you.”

            “So that you could stay with me? Don’t you, erm, know anyone else?”

            Louis thinks he sees annoyance in Harry’s eyes, even for just a moment. “No, as a matter of fact, I don’t. I was living in Brighton for a while but I quit my job on account of sexual harassment and I couldn’t pay my living expenses. And I thought—you’re the closest thing I have to family.”

            “We’ve never even met before,” Louis says, and he thinks that yes, his voice is definitely shriller than it was before. “I…I don’t even know what to say.” What he _wants_ to say is that he feels small right now and doesn’t like being put on the spot and doesn’t like when things get so serious.

            When Louis manages to retrieve his voice, he asks, “Where are you staying right now?”

            “I’m staying with a friend a few blocks from here. I’m…pretty sure that they don’t want me around, though.” He takes a deep breath. “I kind of…I need a job.”

            Louis exhales quickly. “Look, Harry—” he can’t believe he’s saying that name for the first time, “—I would love to help you out, but…I don’t even know you. I don’t know if you’re reliable or if you’re going to cause trouble in my workplace and I certainly don’t trust you enough to have you—”

            Louis watches as Harry’s eyes widen. “No, no, it’s fine. You don’t have to hire me…just let me stay with you? Just long enough to get my feet back on the ground? I can show you…I mean, you don’t even have to pay me. I’ll work for free.”

            Louis thinks about Veronica, the waitress he just fired. He stares at Harry—tries not to get too startled by how innocent he looks, and hopeful—and finally, he says, “Okay. Yeah.” He rubs his temples. He tries to ignore the way that Harry’s face splits into a grin and tries not to smile himself.

            Louis motions Harry to follow him upstairs. Harry excitedly gathers his guitar and notebook and a rucksack that looks like it must be a decade old. Louis wonders if he has any other belongings.

            Upstairs is a hallway with a door that leads into Louis’ flat. It’s less of a flat and more a spacious room, with a small kitchen and a bathroom and a television and a bed in the far corner. Louis spends a moment re-thinking this arrangement.

            “Just…why don’t you set your things down on the couch?”

            Harry does so, wordlessly. He shrugs out of his boots, as well, and places them neatly next to the shoes that Louis has just shed. Harry folds his hands over his chest and stares anxiously at Louis, as if awaiting more instructions.

            “Um, the bathroom is right there, obviously…the fridge doesn’t really have much in it, aside from a few beers, but I don’t know if you’re old enough to drink those…”

            “I’m going to be eighteen in a few months,” Harry says quickly.

            “Okay. Yeah, everything’s up for grabs, I guess…” Louis takes a seat in a chair across from Harry. “When was the last time you called your dad?”

            “I called him three weeks ago. Your mum answered, though…that was when I figured out that he’d been remarried. I looked her up, and found you, and…here I am.”

            Louis doesn’t want to comment on how creepy that is. “Well, I…want you to call him. Again. I don’t think it’s really fair—”

            “Louis,” Harry says quietly, and Louis is alarmed to hear his own name. “He knows I’m alive, and well. He doesn’t care anymore, honestly.” Harry stops. “Could we talk about something else?”

            Louis swallows. “Where have you been, all of this time?”

            “Bristol, Cardiff, Brighton, Leeds…I don’t even think I could name everywhere that I’ve been,” Harry says. He looks excited. “I’ve mainly slept in hostiles or worked on farms for people, in exchange for rent. You’d be surprised by how many people won’t ask you any questions as long as you work for them.”

            “Is this as weird for you as it is for me?” Louis’ voice is uneven.

            Harry sniffs. “I’ve been in weirder situations in the last five years. You couldn’t even imagine.”

            Louis shudders. He pictures Harry, in a stranger’s living room, being asked these same series of questions, but by someone with less than pure intentions.

            “I’m quite tired,” Harry decides. “I promise, you can ask me all of the questions you’d like in the morning. I just…is it alright if I take a shower?”

            “Of course, yeah, go right ahead,” Louis says. He stands. “Um, there should be some clean towels in the closet in the bathroom.”

            Harry nods. “Thank you, so much. I…I promise that you won’t regret this.”

            Harry looks like he is considering something for a moment before he pads across the carpet and wraps his arms around Louis. Louis is stunned. He stands, arms at his sides, feeling violated by this tall, lanky being that he didn’t even know the name of thirty minutes ago. Then, he feels Harry’s warmth, and the soft material of the old jumper he is wearing, and he kind of accepts this destruction of personal space.

            Louis doesn’t really hug people often, especially since he’s been in London and hasn’t had any friends.

            This is nice, though, unbelievably. A hug from a near-stranger has never bred such pleasant thoughts. He lets Harry bury his head into Louis’ shoulder, and he lets himself inhale Harry’s smell (which is, specifically, the smell of other people’s sheets and campfires and old people).

            “You don’t know how grateful I am,” Harry murmurs.

            “It’s going to be okay,” Louis finds himself saying.

            Harry pulls away from him, eyes wide, and slips into the bathroom.

            Louis wonders briefly when Harry last had a home. He tries to imagine himself, a backpack straddling his shoulders, getting rides from unfamiliar faces and not knowing when his next meal would be. He shudders. He considers himself a highly domesticated person; he likes a television and a PlayStation and a refrigerator to be at his disposal at all times, and especially a bed. He needs to know which cabinet the tea rests and if the kettle is clean and how to turn on the shower. Because of these specifics, he does not find himself staying in the homes of others very often.

            While Harry is in the shower, Louis takes the time to lay some clean sheets over the sofa and sets a spare pillow at the end. Because he’s feeling gracious, he also digs through his laundry to find some clean sweats for Harry. He strips down to a pair of boxers and settles into his bed. He turns off the light because he doesn’t know how long Harry will be.

            When the bathroom door opens, he can smell shampoo and hear Harry clicking on the lamp beside the sofa. He hears a small, content sigh, and the putting-on of clothes, and he’s pleased with himself.

            Louis falls asleep to the sound of Harry humming and wakes to that of the kettle whistling.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i will make this brief but thank you so much for the feedback on the last chapter! much appreciated. 
> 
> please let me know if you have any questions, suggestions, whatnot. tanks

            Louis’ headache wakes him before the sound of an intruder does.

            The kettle is whistling, and Louis’ head is pounding, and there is a sound that resembles shuffling feet. Louis lives alone; has done since university. He isn’t used to another body in the house, aside from infrequent one-night stands that he chooses not to recall.

            He opens his eyes. Gray light fills his eyes and he is startled. The curtains have been drawn—an unusual look for his apartment—and as he blinks into consciousness, he notices how much nicer his flat looks with the natural light.

            Of course, there is a lanky body at his stove. His hip is tilted and he stands in a tight T-shirt and pajama pants. He watches the kettle, until Louis sits up and clears his throat. Dimples turns, smiles.

            “Good morning,” he calls, too loudly for being only a number of feet away.

            Louis takes a deep breath. Scratches his neck. “Yup, morning,” he murmurs. He raises a finger pathetically. “Where’d you find the kettle?”

            “It was in a box in your closet,” Harry remembers. He bites his lip. “Sorry…I didn’t want to snoop. Only wanted some tea.”

            Louis shakes his head in disbelief, eyes wide.

            “I only ever stay at other people’s flats,” Harry explains. “That’s, um. How I know. You just moved in…figured it was in a box somewhere. No offense, but you’re kind of the avoidant type, so I knew that you’d shoved some boxes into a corner or closet.”

            Louis gawks. He doesn’t mention that he has been looking for the god damn kettle for ages. He’d been making his tea in the café kitchen. He sighs and tumbles out of bed and into the shower.

            When he clambers out, there is a flower in a vase at his kitchen table and Harry is sitting, slumped, reading the paper and nursing a mug of tea. Louis pulls out a chair. He doesn’t ask where Harry found the paper, because he doesn’t want to have to admit that he didn’t even know he got a paper.

            “How long have you been up?”

            Louis doesn’t mean the question to sound like, “how much have you stolen from me” or “how many children did you slaughter while I was asleep”, but it sort of does. He twiddles the stem of the flower between his thumbs and wonders where Harry possibly could’ve found it. It’s real, and still smells lovely.

            Harry gulps and places his mug carefully on the table. “Three hours.”

            Louis gestures to his clean apartment. “Long enough to do a bit of tidying, pick a few flowers, pick up a paper…milk some cattle, or?”

            “Basically,” Harry says, beaming. He says very matter-of-factly, “I’m used to this, you know. I’ve developed a routine.”

            “What, picking flowers? Or sleeping at strangers’ houses?”

            “Sleeping in someone else’s flat.”

            “Will every morning be like this?” Louis doesn’t mean to imply that he will let Harry stay, really, but he is distracted by the eggs and pancakes on the stove.

            And he owns a café. Really, he shouldn’t be so easily bribed by breakfast. However, Harry rises, and he sets a plate in front of Louis. The pancake has a lopsided smile made with whipped cream. Louis should be less transparent than this, but…this wins him over.

            “Thank you,” he tries to say nonchalantly.

            Harry grins, smugly. “You’re welcome.”

            They eat quietly.

            “Do you need to grab any more stuff from your friend’s?”

            Harry shakes his curls. “Nope. This is everything I’ve got, aside from my car.”

            Louis nods. “Wow.”

            “It’s not bad,” Harry says quickly, as if defending some sort of lifestyle that he leads. “Like, I don’t have any desire for much else. For right now, at least. I’ve lived out of a rucksack for years…it gives you a different perception of matter, and materialism.”

            “You don’t ever want a house of your own? Your own bed, even?”

            “Eventually, yeah, I do,” Harry says. He stares at his fork. “I’d like a family, at some point, I think. My own place. But I don’t need that right now.”

            “What do you need, then?”

            Honestly, Louis can’t really imagine a life in which he wasn’t working towards gaining money and a business that he loves and a nice place. He admits that he is pretty traditional in his views of life; he loves the idea of waking up next to the same person every morning, and a family, and his own place. It is everything he’s wanted since he can remember.

            Harry tells him exactly what he needs. Harry would like: a passport, a bigger suitcase, airfare, connections around the world, and a place to keep a collection of books. Louis wrinkles his nose.

            After talking to him for longer, Louis realizes that Harry is not the typical teen runaway.

            Harry loves every minute of this. He enjoys hopping from city to city, catching trains, and writing about the people that he meets in every new place. He feeds off the new experiences he gathers, whether good or bad; doesn’t even want to think about settling down until he’s been to at least ten other countries.

            “You’re something,” Louis says, when it is starting to get late and he needs to open up the café. He doesn’t really mean to say it.

            “Thank you.”

            Harry gathers their plates, eyes smiling, and washes their dishes.

            Louis isn’t _happy_ , exactly, to have the boy around, but—he’ll do.

 

            Regardless of how many times Harry reassures that he has worked in a bakery before, Louis gives Harry the noble job of sweeping around the place and swiping tables. He isn’t sure how soon he’ll be moving Harry up one position…generally, Veronica—the girl that Harry is replacing—rotated between the role of the barista or the cashier. As kind and charming as Harry has come across, Louis isn’t quite sure that he’s ready to let Harry near the register.

            Louis hands Harry the broom when they make it downstairs.

            “I’m offended,” Harry says quietly.

            “Don’t be. It is a very important job.” Louis points Harry in the direction of the washroom.  “Just clean up after people, give Alfred the dirty dishes. Pretend that you’re Snow White.”

            Harry glowers.

            “You’ve got the hair for it,” Louis reasons, and that’s the end of that.

            “I’ve done worse work,” Harry mumbles.

            Within the first few hours of opening, the staff has fallen for Harry. Alfred now looks delighted to wash any dishes that Harry offers. Harry charms Libba, the barista, nearly to death, which results in a few poorly made cappuccinos. Regardless of his very apparent ability to be distracted and also distract, Harry works hard, though. He gets all of his work done in half the time that Veronica would have, and certainly complains less about it.

            “You’re doing great,” Louis says. He hopes he doesn’t sound too suspicious.

            It goes without saying that Louis doesn’t trust easily. He hates the fact that he’s sort of waiting for Harry to turn on him; to snap at a customer, or say something inappropriate for the workplace, or even slack off and nap upstairs. Even as improbable as all of these events happen to be, Louis can’t stop himself from being guarded.

            Naturally, it seems that no one else has the same concerns. In fact, it could be an illusion, but it seems that there is nearly twice the amount of customers today than there were last week. Which, you know. Louis doesn’t think for a minute that it could be because of the smooth, attractive new addition to the team.

             “You certainly found the right replacement,” Libba breathes.

            Louis and Libba both watch, side by side, as Harry carefully brings a young couple their order. He leans down and adoringly makes silly faces at their small daughter. He even brings them a pink cupcake—one of the day-olds, probably soon to be thrown out—and they coo at his consideration.

            “I’ll say,” Louis says.

            The young couple leaves and Harry toddles on, looking pleased with his act of kindness. He pats Pep, one of the bakers, on the back and says something that triggers a loud laugh from the man. Louis, again, is in disbelief.

            When the day reaches closing, Louis takes off his apron and helps turn of the appliances and such. Harry chats with Libba and the rest of the staff about the movie that just came out. Louis taps his foot and clears his throat until finally, everyone starts to go home.

            “Everyone did swell today!” Harry calls as they leave.

            Louis wants to say, “you don’t run the place, you know,” but he doesn’t. He says, “Come on now, I’m tired.”

            They trail up to the flat and Louis nearly collapses on the sofa.

            Harry observes Louis’ tired state. “Would you like me to make you some tea?”

            “No,” Louis mumbles. “I can make my own tea.”

            He sits up and wanders over the stove. In the back of his mind, he's sure that Harry is biting his lip. 

            “Are you upset with me?” Harry asks. He shuffles over to the counter and clasps his hands. He peers at Louis’ timidly.

            “Not at all.” Louis fills the kettle and places it on the burner.

            “Did I do alright today?”

            “You were flawless,” Louis says. “Everyone just absolutely _adores_ you. Tomorrow, I’ll have to be looking for a new job.”

            Harry sighs. “Louis,” he begins. “Are you worried that I’m going to replace you?”

            “No!” Yes. And the staff would never mind, considering that they very obviously like Harry better.

            “That’s ridiculous,” Harry says. “You’re the boss. You make the calls. In fact, you could fire me right now. But you’re the whole reason that Libba and Alfred and Jamie and everyone have a steady income, so there’s no reason to feel inadequate.”

            Damn Harry Styles and his therapeutic nature. Louis feels like he should say, “God, it’s only been one day. I’m sorry, I’m such a train-wreck.”

             Instead, he says, “It’s not about that. Don’t worry. I’m just tired, that’s literally it.”

            Harry gives Louis a pat on the shoulder. Louis can practically _hear_ Harry's smile. “Okay. Why don’t you go take a shower or something and I’ll finish with the tea?”

            Louis stumbles away, shocked for the thousandth time since he let Harry into his flat, strangely comforted. He isn’t sure how this teenage boy took over his life and became his mother. He doesn’t even know where to go from here, but he makes it into the shower, and that’s good enough.

            It’s simple to say that today was the longest year of his life.

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed! feedback, whether positive or negative, is welcome :)


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